Caring is (Not) an Advantage
by Dreigiau
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade have a very clear, simple agreement set up. Sex, once a week, with no romantic entanglement and no strings attached. But of course, relationships are never quite that simple. Rules are bent, boundaries are renegotiated, and the end result may well be something that neither of them ever expected to achieve.
1. Chapter 1

Wednesday was a good day, in Greg's opinion. The best day of the week, really. He slid into the black car idling by the pavement without pause, settling back against the comfortable seats. It had been a long week since the previous Wednesday.

He did not bother to knock when he arrived at the house. The front door was unlocked, as it always was when he arrived on a Wednesday evening. He made his way through the house confidently, toeing off his shoes at the door and hanging up his coat. He took the stairs two at a time, then stepped through the first door to the left. He had barely shut the door before he was pushed back against it.

"Hello you," Greg murmured, grinning as Mycroft pressed against him, reaching up for a kiss. He hummed, wrapping one arm around Mycroft's back and gripping the back of the other man's neck with his other hand.

By the time they parted they were both breathing heavily, and Greg kept their foreheads pressed together.

"Hi," he repeated.

"Hello," Mycroft agreed. Greg kissed him again, hard, backing them both towards the bed.

"Good week?" Greg asked between kisses.

Mycroft sighed, dropping back on to the bed as he muttered, "No."

"Oh good, me neither," Greg said. He crawled onto the bed after Mycroft, straddling his hips and leaning down for another kiss. "So what I'm going to do now is fuck you, and then maybe we'll both feel better about that."

Mycroft huffed a humourless laugh, tugging on the front of Greg's shirt. "Well do get on with it, then."

Greg chuckled, sitting up to undo his shirt and shrug it off, along with his jacket. He tossed them both behind him before turning his attention back to Mycroft.

"This is going to be easier if we undress ourselves," Greg announced after a moment's consideration. He shifted off of Mycroft, sitting on the side of the bed to undo his trousers.

"This would be much easier if you would agree to meet naked," Mycroft said matter of factly, unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke.

"Maybe. But I like seeing you all dressed up, too. And sometimes, I rather enjoy undressing you." Greg shrugged, slipping out of his boxers before shifting back onto the bed. "Now, where were we?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, shifting up to lie in the centre of the bed. Greg straddled him again, leaning down for a slow, languid kiss. Mycroft sighed into it, a quiet, contented sound. Greg grinned, tracing Mycroft's lower lip with his tongue before pulling back and reaching into the draw of the bedside table. He groped around for a moment before withdrawing with a muted, triumphant noise.

Greg dropped the condom wrapper onto the pillow, uncapping the bottle of lubricant and pouring a liberal amount into his hand. He set the bottle on the bedside table, leaning back in for a kiss as he reached down between Mycroft's legs.

Mycroft inhaled slowly as Greg slid one finger into his arse. Greg waited until Mycroft exhaled and relaxed before he started to move.

For a while there was no sound but for their panted breaths and the slick slide of Greg's fingers, in and out. First one, then two, and finally three. Mycroft was suppressing whimpers by the time Greg removed his fingers and reached for the condom packet.

Greg cursed under his breath as the packet slipped from his lubed fingers rather than tearing open.

Mycroft picked up the packet from where it landed on his chest, tearing it open easily. He pushed at Greg's shoulders until the older man sat up. He rolled the condom down over Greg's erection, lingering for a few light, teasing strokes before letting go and shifting his hips impatiently.

Greg added a little lubricant to the outside of the condom before settling back over Mycroft, his arms braced by the younger man's shoulders. After a moment's pause for thought he rocked back onto his heels. He cupped Mycroft's hip in one hand, lifting the younger man's hips and using the other hand to guide the top of his dick into Mycroft's arse.

Mycroft made a quiet sound of protest as Greg rocked forwards to kiss and nip at his neck. Greg chuckled, nipping again.

"No marks above the collar, I know," Greg said. He shifted his hips, groaning as he slid fully inside. Mycroft keened beneath him, his back arching and one hand gripping Greg's arm as the other scrabbled at his back, searching for purchase.

"Patience," Greg said, kissing Mycroft neck, then licking into the dip of his clavicle. He rolled his hips, slowly, deliberately, and they both moaned.

"I thought," Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice steady between panted breaths, "that you were going to fuck me."

"Never said hard," Greg replied. "Getting impatient, sweetheart?" Greg winked, chuckling at Mycroft's look of disgust. Mycroft's reactions to pet names were the only reason Greg kept using them. "Well fine then."

Greg shifted to prop himself on one elbow. He set a consistent rhythm of thrusts with his hips, wrapping a hand around Mycroft's prick, tugging in time with the roll of his hips. Greg's rhythm did not last long. His movements became erratic as he panted into Mycroft's neck and the younger man moaned and writhed beneath him.

Mycroft came first, a wordless shout leaving him as he pulsed in Greg's hand and spattered come across both their stomachs. Greg followed a few thrusts later, pressing his face into Mycroft's shoulder and groaning as he came.

In the moment after his orgasm, Greg wondered what would happen if he did not follow their normal routine. If instead of catching his breath, cleaning them both up, dressing and leaving he was to clean them both up, then crawl back into bed. What would happen if he were to kiss Mycroft, to hold him close as they fell asleep. Would the younger man allow him to stay the night? To wake up beside him, share breakfast and a shower?

Greg pressed his nose to Mycroft's temple for a moment (not a kiss, not now), before climbing out of the bed. The condom went into the bin. In the bathroom he took a moment to clean himself up, then took a flannel through to the bedroom. He passed the cloth to Mycroft, before beginning the search for his clothes.

He was shrugging on his suit jacket when Mycroft made a quiet noise, obviously meant to draw his attention. Greg paused. Mycroft never attempted to communicate once they were finished. He turned to face the younger man, waiting expectantly.

"I shall be out of the country, next week," Mycroft informed him softly. He had drawn the duvet up around himself, and quite in contrast to his usual, confident self it made him look unsure, almost vulnerable. It was not helping in the slightest with Greg's attempts to tamp down on the urge to crawl back into the bed and wrap Mycroft up in his arms.

"I'll see you in a fortnight, then," he said instead. He smiled briefly, ignoring the urge to cross the room for a parting kiss, and left the room.

Mycroft had made the rules about their relationship very clear, Greg reminded himself as he made his way down the stairs and pulled on his coat and shoes. He was not sure that it was worth the risk to try and break any of them.


	2. Chapter 2

All in all, in Greg's opinion, the following Wednesday was entirely shite.

From the moment he stepped into his office it was clear that it was going to be a quiet day. His desk was buried under paperwork, and he knew he had nothing more to look forward to than a day of dotting the i's and crossing the t's before signing everything off. That meant long hours, seconds dragging by, only slightly hurried on by copious amounts of bad coffee. It was exactly the reason he had never considered the possibility of taking a full time desk job. The fact that he had nothing to look forward to at the end of the day but his own empty flat, and equally empty bed, certainly didn't help.

By the early afternoon, after three mugs of coffee, Greg was almost feeling productive. The pile of completed files and paperwork had been steadily growing all day, and a couple of well placed glares had been enough to stop those who had entered his office with the intention of adding more to the pile that still needed doing. His inbox was never going to be empty of files, but it was at least looking more manageable.

When the door to his office opened just before three he glanced up sharply, ready to snap that he was not taking another pile of files, no matter how much coffee he was bribed with. Sally did not balk at the look he gave her, instead holding up a Greggs bag and a mug of coffee.

"Thought you might want to stop for some lunch," she told him.

Greg glanced at his watch, grimacing at the time. "Right, lunch. Thanks Sally." He managed a smile, small but genuine, and took the bag of food from her when she held it out.

"Everything okay?" Sally asked after a moment. "Only, you looked about ready to kill someone just then, and you're down as a DI on call this evening."

"What of it?" he asked. He took a sip of coffee, closing his eyes for a moment. It didn't taste great, but the rush from the caffeine when it turned up was going to be more than a little useful.

"You're never on call on Wednesday evening." Sally lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, and Greg could see her starting to question if she should have bothered with asking in the first place. "Always figured you had an appointment or something."

"Or something," Greg agreed. "Cancelled this week, thought taking the extra hours couldn't hurt." He opened the Greggs bag, pulling out the chicken baguette inside. "You are a life saver," he told Sally.

"Well someone's got to make sure you eat, and you're not going to," she told him, grinning. "Can I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Fire away," Greg said before taking a bite of baguette.

"Get yourself out of the office for a bit sometime this evening. The last thing we need is to be investigating a murder within the Yard. We've got enough work, and the media would have a field day."

Greg chuckled, nodding shortly. "Fine. I'll make sure I get out of the office before I murder someone for bringing me more paperwork, I promise." He gestured to the files. "Though what I could do other than papercut them to death, I don't know."

"Sounds like a particularly unpleasant way to go," Sally commented dryly.

Six o'clock came and went, and Greg spared only a brief glance at the clock. Usually he would leave at six. Head home, shower and change, get himself ready to go and see Mycroft. Instead he was surrounded by paperwork. Shut away in his office and, as far as he was concerned, not really helping anyone. Bloody bureaucracy.

Another few minutes passed before he tossed his pen onto the desk, reaching for his phone and tapping out a quick text. He had a couple of leads to follow up on a case, a double murder which Sherlock had taken a look at and told him to come back with if it developed into something more interesting. If he was going to get out of the office, it might as well be doing something useful, and he hadn't checked in with Sherlock for a while.

A few minutes passed before he got a reply to the text. Long enough for him to remove the rubbish from his desk and take the empty mugs which had accumulated out to the small kitchen down the hallway. The answer was from John, rather than Sherlock, and Greg was not surprised.

He met them half an hour later, just outside the front of the Yard. It was a warm summer evening, and he left his coat behind, quite happy to brave London in his shirt and jacket.

To no one's surprise, within the hour Greg and John were chasing Sherlock across London. The consulting detective had set off after a quick look at the crime scene, now weeks old, spouting deductions too quickly for either John or Greg to follow. Instead they had been able to do nothing other than sprint after him.

Sherlock had not expected to find his suspect in the abandoned flat that they went to look into. Greg had mostly followed the train of thought that sent them there. Something about a receipt and where their victim had lived.

As such, on breaking into the abandoned flat they had immediately found themselves confronted by two men in the middle of what appeared to be a drug deal. The men had scarpered in opposite directions, and Sherlock was the one to make the split second decision of who to follow. Greg and John had followed him, more concerned about his safety than catching the man who'd taken off through another door.

The three of them followed one of the men down the back stairs, Sherlock focused only on the man just feet in front of him, while John and Greg were more worried about keeping the consulting detective safe.

They sprinted along the pavements of London roads, eventually darting into more residential areas as their suspect left the main roads. Within minutes he was cornered in a dead end, and Greg took a moment to appreciate how well Sherlock knew London. Well enough to chorale someone running ahead of him into a spot that he couldn't escape from. Greg knew parts of London in a fair amount of detail, but he was lost in the warren of side streets and blocks of flats.

The look in the man's eyes when he turned put Greg immediately more on edge than he had been already. It was the terrified, wide eyes look of a trapped animal. If Greg knew anything, it was that that look was dangerous. Very dangerous.

The DI shoved Sherlock out of the way as the suspect lunged. He caught what felt like a punch to the stomach, and it winded him. He staggered a half step back, focus still more on Sherlock than himself. The younger man had regained his balance, though the look of alarm on his face when he looked back at Greg was rather concerning. It was only a punch, Greg had suffered worse while trying to protect Sherlock. He had never received a scrap of recognition from the consulting detective for looking out for him before.

A moment later he felt the man dragged away from him, John having followed him into his attempts to protect Sherlock. The doctor tackled the man to the ground, and Greg was momentarily surprised to see a glint of metal in his hand, stained red.

He glanced down at himself, eyebrows rising as he noticed red seeping through the white of his shirt, spreading slowly outwards from the dull throb of pain where contact had been made.

Greg watched with a detached sort of interest as blood started to spread from the wound in his stomach. He was vaguely aware that it hurt, a lot, but couldn't quite bring himself to do anything about it.

He blinked once, twice, finding it harder to open his eyes the second time. John was kneeling beside him, and he could not work out when he had ended up on the floor. The pain worsened as John pressed on the wound, stemming the blood, and although the doctor was talking Greg could not focus on the words.

He blinked again when a hand came into view, fingers snapping to catch his attention. He forced himself to look at them, to follow the focus through and pay attention to Sherlock's face, just behind the hand. He was speaking too, mouth obviously forming words, and while Greg could hear them he was having difficulty stringing them into anything that made sense.

"Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, and Greg managed to make sense of the sound. His name, right, he didn't have to do anything in response to that.

Blue lights flashed around them, and Greg heard sirens, more voices that he could not make sense of. He saw Sherlock's face twist in something that looked almost like concern, but that had to be a mistake. The view above him changed, paramedics this time. More people, more talking. Greg wanted them to stop. The fact that they were talking at all was exhausting, there was no way he could focus on what they were saying or make sense of it.

He recognised the inside of an ambulance, the face of one of the paramedics, then nothing as shock and blood loss finally overcame him and he fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg woke up all in one go. He inhaled sharply at the jolt of pain in stomach, exhaling as it faded almost instantly into a dull ache.

"You absolute pillock." Greg started as the voice came from beside him, wincing as he jolted his injury.

"Nice to see you too," he replied, turning his head to grin up at his older sister. "Done something to upset you, have I Jen?"

"Just a call from your work at half eight last night to say you'd been stabbed. No big deal." Jennifer was up out of her seat, pacing along the side of the bed as she spoke.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Am I- Am I okay?" Jennifer asked, pausing in her pacing to stare at him disbelievingly. "You were stabbed, and you want to know if I'm okay?"

"You're upset." Greg shrugged. "Besides, maybe if you think about how you are you'll stop worrying about me."

Jennifer dropped back into the chair with a sigh. "You were stabbed, Greg. I really don't think you're taking this seriously."

"I barely felt it, Jen. They patched me up, right?" Greg reached out, taking his sister's hand and squeezing. "Sorry I scared you."

"I had to call Mum and Dad. Eight in the morning for them, Mum was still in bed. Told them you were going to be okay, just doing your best to get yourself killed. Can't you look at early retirement, or something?"

Greg was more than used to the discussion, someone in his family made the suggestion every time he got so much as a scrape. "I'm barely past forty, Jen. And no, I'm not looking into a desk job, I'd hate it. The next couple of weeks while this heals are going to be bad enough."

"I just can't believe you're so blase about landing in hospital overnight." Jennifer shook her head, a fond, despairing gesture that Greg was more than a little used to. "At least you're not complaining. You were such a whiner when you were younger."

"Haven't they got me on the good stuff?" Greg asked, wincing as he tried to sit up. "Could do with something a bit stronger."

"Don't be a wuss," Jennifer replied. "And for God's sake keep still, don't want you to open up your stitches."

"Fine," Greg stilled. "Now that we've established that I'm okay, how're the kids?"

"Worried about their stupid uncle," Jennifer said. "Jake asked if you'd gotten yourself killed when I said I was coming to see you. I must've looked worried enough for it."

"You must stop telling them horror stories about my job, it's not that bad. I don't get hurt that often, and statistically it's not particularly dangerous." Greg settled back more comfortably against the mattress. He was hopeful that he would not have to stay in another night, as the wound was cleaned and stitched.

"Most cops don't work with Sherlock Holmes," Jennifer pointed out, and Greg conceded the point with a slight nod. "I'm going to find someone, see if we can't get you out of here."

The rundown that the nurse gave them was mostly, Greg suspected, for his benefit. The stab wound had been shallow, and thanks to John's quick actions he had not lost very much blood. They had replaced some fluids on his arrival, but he had not lost close to enough blood to require a transfusion. He had escaped the ordeal with only a few stitches and a dressing. He nodded along as the nurse explained how to keep them clean and what he needed to do about getting them checked and eventually removed. It was nothing that he didn't already know, but he took the information sheets that he was handed. He was going to have a scar, but only a small one, and it didn't bother him even slightly.

He hobbled carefully out of the hospital with Jennifer's help. She drove him home, and he was briefly thankful that he had picked up the flat a little when he found himself with a free hour on the Tuesday evening.

He finally saw her off in the early afternoon, once he had promised to call more often (he wouldn't remember) and they had decided that the kids would have to visit him over their Summer Holiday (he would make the time for that, if he had to sell his soul to other DIs for a month to get a few days off).

The next few days passed slowly. Greg called in as soon as Jennifer left, and had been told in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to be back at The Yard until Monday, at the earliest. He was going to be stuck in the office for another week, at least, probably longer.

Through Thursday evening and the weekend Greg was surprised by the number of visitors that he received. Sally stopped by with a card, which she'd sent around The Yard impressively quickly. She stayed for a cup of tea and a chat, but refused to give him any news related to work, much to his annoyance.

She did tell him that they'd caught their suspect. John had knocked the men out before turning to tend to Greg, and Sherlock had kept an eye on him once the ambulance had arrived. He had had several charges added to the original list which Sherlock had suggested he was guilty of. Assault on a police office, assault with a weapon and actual bodily harm to name just a few. With Sherlock and John as witnesses, and eventually Greg's testimony, there was no doubt that he was going to serve time for each and every charge.

John visited, and Greg thanked him profusely for his help. John said that he could hardly have left Greg to bleed, especially when he had been saving Sherlock (and by extension, saving John from having to deal with an injured Sherlock), but that he was more than welcome. They spent the afternoon together, mostly chatting and laughing about the shenanigans Sherlock had gotten himself involved in before John had met him.

The biggest shock of the week came on Saturday, when his phone rang and Sherlock's name flashed onto the screen. Greg answered it cautiously, and was even more surprised to hear that it was actually Sherlock on the other end. The consulting detective managed a few short minutes of forced conversation before sighing as though he were enduring some kind of torture.

"I would like to thank you," Sherlock said eventually, and Greg could almost hear the petulant look that was no doubt twisting his lips. "I would likely have been badly injured had you not intervened."

"Any time," Greg told him, grinning into the phone. "Try not to make a habit of it, though. Can't be taking knives for you too often."

"Certainly." Sherlock paused, and Greg could tell that he was struggling somewhat with what to say next.

"I'll text you when I'm back at work. I'm sure we'll have a couple of cases stacked up that'll suit you," Greg said.

"Good. Heal quickly, none of the other DIs are suitable to work with." Greg chuckled fondly as Sherlock hung up.

Dimmock arrived late on Sunday evening, mostly to check that Greg was not driving himself mad without work to focus on. He did not stay long, explaining that he had to start early the next morning. Greg saw him off with a grin, suggesting that he would owe the younger DI greatly if a couple of cases happened to find their way to him. He did not hold out much hope that that would happen.

By the beginning of the next week he had quite the collection of cards on his kitchen table. The card from the Yard had been the first to arrive, followed by one from his sister and her family (he had called on Saturday, mostly to talk to his niece and nephew and reassure them that he was fine). John had brought one which he and Sherlock had both signed, though Greg was under the impression that the consulting detective had been under threat of bodily harm if he refused.

Saturday saw the arrival of a courier who didn't say a word as they handed over a card and an impressive bouquet, all green foliage and white flowers. It was quite obviously not the common supermarket bouquet. He set the flowers up in a vase which didn't come close to doing the justice, he had to dig it out from the back of a cupboard. Even in the rather disappointing vase, Greg thought that it looked rather fantastic. The card was a simple thank you card, and Greg wondered briefly if Mycroft (or rather, Mycroft's assistant) had a pile of them somewhere, ready to send to people who saved Sherlock's life. He would have to ask.

The Monday morning post brought a card from his parents, all the way across from New Zealand, and Greg was impressed with how quickly it had arrived. By Monday afternoon he was bored out of his skull. He'd cleaned the flat top to bottom, stopping often to rest the ache out of his stomach.

He phoned to try to beg back onto work, and was told that they had covered his shifts until the end of the week. He was to rest and recuperate, to enjoy his week off. His arguments fell on deaf ears, and he was left staring at his phone once the call had disconnected.


	4. Chapter 4

Wednesday could not come quickly enough. Greg was almost ready to sprint down the stairs by the time the familiar black car pulled up outside of his block of flats. His attempts to keep himself busy, both in and out of his flat, had failed miserably. At least he knew where he stood with Mycroft, knew what to expect. More importantly, it was a semblance of his usual week, something regular that he knew would start at the expected time. Maybe the schedule, the regularity, would help to settle him. If not, maybe the sex would.

"So tell me," Greg said as he stepped into the bedroom, "Do you have cards and flowers ready made up for people who save Sherlock's life? Is John drowning in them?"

"Doctor Watson has yet to land himself in hospital or seriously injured on my brother's behalf," Mycroft replied. He was standing by the window, and Greg could see from across the room that his shoulders were drawn up in a tense line. If he had to guess, he would say that Mycroft's week had been almost as bad as his own.

"Give him time," Greg suggested, crossing the room. He turned Mycroft towards him, pulling him in for a brief kiss. "He's gotten himself close often enough."

"True," Mycroft agreed. "I am grateful, that you keep an eye on Sherlock. Though if you could avoid injury in the future that would be preferable."

"Tell me about it," Greg said. "They've got me off work until Monday, I think I'm going crazy."

"I was referring to more imminent activities than work," Mycroft said. "I was rather concerned that your injury would affect your ability to fully partake in our involvement."

"If you're asking if I can safely have sex without tearing the stitches, the answer in yes," Greg said, kissing along Mycroft's jaw.

"Hmm, perhaps." Mycroft caught Greg's lips in another kiss, rougher this time, reaching for Greg's belt and fly. "Still, best to avoid as much strain as possible." He backed Greg towards the bed, pushing the other man's trousers and pants down before urging him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Mycroft Holmes on his knees, thin lips swollen from rough kisses, was an image pulled right from the beginning of a wet dream, in Greg's opinion.

"I think I might enjoy this," Greg commented, chuckling when Mycroft glanced up at him.

"That is rather the point," Mycroft said.

Greg leant back slightly, taking his weight onto one arm and kicking off his trousers and pants so that he could spread his legs. He sighed as Mycroft mouthed his way up the inside of his right thigh.

The DI shifted slightly as Mycroft wrapped a hand around his cock. He tipped his head back, not entirely sure how long he would last should he keep watching what Mycroft was doing. "Fuck," he breathed when Mycroft wrapped his lips around the head of his erection. His free hand found its way into Mycroft's hair, slipping into the strands and resting gently rather than guiding.

Greg did not bother to try to keep quiet. The house was detached, so there were no neighbours to worry about bothering, and Greg had learned early on that Mycroft enjoyed vocal feedback.

Greg looked down at Mycroft, a groan building in his throat at the sight. Mycroft's eyes were closed, his forehead furrowed ever so slightly in concentration, while his lips were wrapped tight around Greg's cock, hand moving efficiently over the length he could not fit into his mouth. If ever Greg needed an image for wank fodder, he was fairly sure that he had found it.

The view was too much for Greg, and as his arousal tipped from building to just the far side of too much he tightened his hand ever so slightly in Mycroft's hair. "Fuck. 'm close, Mycroft."

He wasn't sure why, but he was expecting Mycroft to pull away. Instead he seemed to redouble his efforts, sucking hard and working his hand faster until Greg came with a shout.

Greg took a moment to gather himself before looking back down at Mycroft. The younger man had his cheek rested on Greg's thigh, and despite being still fully clothed, he looked entirely wrecked. "You look far too pretty like that," Greg commented before he removed his hand from Mycroft's hair, catching hold of his shoulder and pulling him up and forwards. He drew Mycroft into a kiss, ignoring the awkward position in favour of focusing on the slide of tongues and the heady taste of himself in Mycroft's mouth.

When they parted Greg shifted back on the bed, settling himself on top of the duvet, his head on the pillows. He gestured for Mycroft to follow him, grinning when the other man settled above him.

He made quick work of Mycroft's belt and fly, slipping one hand into the younger man's pants and wrapping it around his cock while the other curled around the back of his neck, pulling him down into another kiss. Mycroft moaned into his mouth, hips stuttering towards Greg's hand.

"There you go," Greg murmured against Mycroft's lips, twisting his wrist slightly and drawing another moan from him.

"Fuck," Mycroft swore, and Greg chuckled. There was something deeply satisfying about reducing the usually well put together man to monosyllables and cursing.

It took only a few more minutes for Greg to coax Mycroft into his orgasm. The younger man shivered, a moan which trailed off into a whimper torn from his throat as he came, hard, in Greg's hand. He managed to hold himself up for a few seconds before collapsing, forehead resting on Greg's shoulder as he collected himself.

Greg was stuck. He was not going to push Mycroft off of him, and the younger man seemed to have no inclination to move. But he could not leave while Mycroft was sprawled out on top of him. "I missed you, last week," Greg said after a moment, immediately reconsidering the words when Mycroft tensed against him. "This, I mean," he corrected himself as Mycroft shifted off of him. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for some tissues to clean himself up and passing a handful back to Mycroft. He would shower when he got home, clean up properly.

"You could have found alternative company," Mycroft commented as Greg pulled his pants on and reached for his trousers.

"Tried that, it got me stabbed," Greg pointed out. "Won't be trying it again."

"I was not referring to that sort of company."

Greg shook his head as he did up his belt. "Nah, getting too old for the one night stand thing. I'll see you next week." Greg leant on the edge of the mattress for a moment, pressing a brief kiss to Mycroft's forehead before leaving the room.

It wasn't until he was halfway down the stairs that he realised what he had done, pausing for a moment in mid step before carrying on. There was nothing that he could do to take it back, and Mycroft had not said anything.

Alone in his bed, tissues ignored, trousers still undone and pants quickly becoming uncomfortable and sticky, Mycroft sat slightly stunned. He raised a hand to his forehead, fingers resting against the spot where Greg's lips had pressed for that brief second.

Oh. That could be a problem.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg spent the rest of the week berating himself for slipping up. He had plenty of time to think about it, with time off until Monday and the threat of another week stuck at his desk when he got back to work.

He knew Mycroft's rules, knew his boundaries, and he had broken them. He had overstepped, and he found himself both worried and faintly hopeful that the car would not show up on the following Wednesday. At least if Mycroft cut him off he wouldn't have to worry about controlling himself. He wouldn't have to keep the slowly growing feelings under check, wouldn't have to stop them seeping out into touches and kisses, sentiment that Mycroft neither wanted nor asked for. Hiding them from anyone would be difficult enough, but the thought of hiding anything from a Holmes was enough to give him a headache.

And yet, the idea of Mycroft ending their meetings sat heavy and uncomfortable in Greg's gut. It had been over a year since their first time, and Mycroft's presence had been the only entirely consistent thing since then. He had been through a divorce, a move and a promotion in that time. Sex every Wednesday with a willing (and sometimes needy) Mycroft was the only thing that had not changed in some way.

The stitches came out on Tuesday. The skin around the healing wound was still bruised, but Greg knew that it would fade, given time. It had healed well, the flesh knitting together without any complications. It would scar, leaving a thin, white line against his stomach. But Greg was too busy counting his blessings to care. He had avoided serious internal injury, major blood loss and infection. He had been lucky to escape with just a scar.

Watching the car pull up against the curb the following evening was both a relief and a concern. Greg wondered if they were going to have to have a conversation, or if they were going to pretend as though nothing had happened, nothing had changed. He questioned, briefly, if Mycroft had even been bothered by it. He had no real reason to think that the younger man was particularly upset by the turn of events, but for the rules that had been set out before they had even begun.

There was no conversation, and again Greg wasn't sure if he should be worried of relieved. The sex that week and the next was, in Greg's opinion, a little below average. Which, given that sex with Mycroft had been falling into the 'damn good' category for well over six months, was something of a disappointment. Mycroft would barely look at him, let alone talk to him. Their fun and easy banter was gone, and Greg was left desperately searching for a way to bring it back.

It reminded him, in a vague sense, of what it had been like when they first started. Sherlock had deduced, for the umpteenth time, that his wife was cheating again. They were just in the first stages of their divorce, though it had been a long time coming. Mycroft had kidnapped him for a chat about Sherlock, listened as he complained about the younger Holmes' lack of tact, then bluntly propositioned him.

Greg had been surprised, to say the least. He had said he would need to think about it, mentioned that he was still married, and promised to get back to Mycroft before too long.

Two weeks later the black car had pulled up outside of his new, and at the time temporary, flat. The one that he was still living in. Greg had dithered for a few long minutes before making his way downstairs and getting into the car.

Those first meetings had been awkward. Greg knew the rules in theory, but had found them more difficult in practice. He had never been particularly good at separating sex from relationships. Never much been one for one night stands and sex for its own sake. Besides which, he hadn't slept with a man since Uni, back before he got married.

But they managed, fell into a routine and a pattern. They learned each other's bodies and Greg found out what he could get away with. How Mycroft would react to chatter and banter. How the occasional pet name may cause Mycroft to pull a face, but he could take it with good humour. And with one simple kiss, Greg had thrown those months of progress away.

It wasn't until the third week that he was hit with a potential solution. One which was so obvious that he could barely believe that he had not thought to try it immediately.

The fact that it came to him while he was lying on his back, Mycroft pressing slowly into his arse, was of little consequence (that he could think clearly, let alone form a plan, told him more than enough about the decline in the quality of their sex). He lifted his head slightly, frowning as he noticed that Mycroft's focus was very much on his chin, rather than his face.

"Mycroft," Greg said. "Mycroft, stop."

Mycroft stilled immediately, gaze flicking from Greg's chin to his eyes. There was a question in his gaze, and it suddenly occurred to Greg that he had not chosen the ideal moment to start the conversation that he had in mind.

"Could you." Greg gestured vaguely. Mycroft pulled out, sitting back on the bed. He inclined his head slightly, clearly waiting.

Greg forced himself to take a breath, to sort out his words. He wondered, for a moment, if he should cover himself, before deciding that it really didn't matter. It was going to be painfully awkward, naked or not. "Look, this isn't- isn't working out. I'm sorry. I overstepped the mark the other week. But we either need to move past it, or stop doing this, because I can't carry on like this."

Mycroft didn't reply, and Greg took a deep breath before continuing.

"You made the rules very clear." He shrugged. "I won't do it again."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and Greg quite suddenly felt even more naked than he had up until that point. He was used to the close scrutiny that came from a Holmes, and he forced himself to look right back at the younger man, holding his gaze.

Eventually Mycroft nodded shortly, and Greg let out a breath that he hadn't realised he was holding. The DI drew his legs up towards himself, swinging them off of the side of the bed and standing.

"Figure I've killed the mood a bit," Greg muttered as he gathered his clothes and quickly pulled them on. Mycroft didn't reply, hadn't replied to a thing that Greg had said. The DI decided to take the silence as an agreement, and he did not pause at the door as he left the room.

As he jogged down the stairs and strode down to the car that would take him home, Greg could almost convince himself that he was giving Mycroft some space, rather than running away.


	6. Chapter 6

_To: Sherlock Holmes_

_New case you might like, I can drop the file off on my way home from work. Interested? - GL_

_To: Greg Lestrade_

_His nibs is ill. Bring case files that don't require leaving the house or bring sedatives. Or leave it an hour and bring a body bag. - JW_

Greg chucked at the reply, shaking his head. How Sherlock had found someone so willing to put up with all of his histrionics, Greg didn't know. But he was glad that he had.

_To: John Watson_

_Please don't kill him. Will be with you shortly. - GL_

He stopped off at Boots on the way to Baker Street, picking up various packets of cold and flu medication before making the rest of the drive. He had only had to deal with an ill Sherlock once before, and he couldn't help but be thankful that John would be bearing the brunt of it this time.

Mrs. Hudson let him in at the front door, and he paused to chat with her for a few minutes. He left her with a promise that he would drop by on his next day off to do a bit of DIY for her.

The door to the flat was open, and he stepped inside without knocking.

"I didn't have any suitable cases that won't have him trying to run out of the flat, so I'm hoping half of Boots will help," Greg said, holding the bag out in front of him as he entered. It would be a poor shield, but last time Sherlock was ill he had taken to throwing things, and it was better than nothing.

"The right ones will knock him out, at least. I've got him confined to bed for the moment, but I don't know how long that'll work," John replied. "Tea? I was just putting the kettle on."

"That'd be great, thanks. How's he holding up?" Greg asked, dropping the bag onto the kitchen table.

"About as well as you'd expect. Refusing to sleep and sulking, mostly," John said, placing a mug of tea down in front of Greg.

"Sounds about right," Greg agreed, wrapping his hands around the mug.

"Won't take anything, either. Don't suppose you have any idea how to convince him?" John asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

"Oh, he's like a bloody toddler when it comes to taking medicine." Greg nodded. "There's a trick to it. It's easy enough once you know."

"Well, if you could get him to take some cold tablets, and a couple of Ibuprofen, that'd be great. Might knock him out for a few hours."

"Will do. Sleep's great for his recovery, if you can convince him," Greg said. "I'll see what I can do. Have you got a spoon and some honey?"

He rummaged through the Boots bag as John poured another mug of tea, pulling out the appropriate packages and slipping them into a pocket. He picked up the mug, as well as the jar of honey and spoon. "Won't be long, I doubt he'll put up with me for more than a few minutes."

Greg stepped into Sherlock's room carefully, checking for anything being thrown before he settled on the side of the bed. Sherlock was curled up at the far edge, hidden under a pile of duvet and blankets. He snuffled pathetically, and Greg bit down on a chuckle. When Sherlock caught a cold, he got a serious case of man flu alongside it.

"The good doctor says it's time to take your medicine," Greg greeted. Sherlock turned to glare at him, though it was a weak shadow of his usual vitriol.

"No," Sherlock said, voice muffled by the blankets and his runny nose.

"It'll make you feel better," Greg promised. "Come on, I've got honey."

Sherlock's glare faded slightly, and he half sat up in the bed. Greg loaded up a spoon with honey, dropped the tablets onto the top, and passed it to Sherlock. The younger man took it and swallowed the mouthful before passing the spoon back to Greg. Greg passed him another spoon of honey with a grin. "Don't tell John I let you have extra," he said, winking.

Sherlock nodded, though he made a token attempt to give Greg a withering look before settling back down under the duvet.

"Good lad. Try and get some sleep, hmm? I've got a case you'll like, when you're better. I'll be back to check in in a few days." Greg ruffled Sherlock's hair, earning himself an unimpressed sniff. He left the mug of tea within Sherlock's reach, picked up the honey, and left the room.

"Next time you want to get him to take anything, hide them in honey," Greg said as he stepped out into the lounge.

"A time tested trick," a voice agreed, and Greg almost dropped the jar in his hand.

"Mycroft, hi." He managed, nodding briefly at the elder Holmes before crossing the room to hand the honey to John.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector," Mycroft replied smoothly. "I have simply come to visit my brother."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled," Greg replied. "I've got to run, John. He'll take a honey and lemon hot drink with pain killers, too. It'll help him to decongest." He headed for the door. "I'll see you around." He raised a hand in a slight wave, avoiding Mycroft's gaze as he did so, and slipped out of the flat.

He wasn't running away, he told himself. He had work to get back to. Well, no, he'd been on his way home. He had home to get back to, and work to do there. He couldn't wait around in Baker Street, trying to work out what the proper level of formality was for talking to Mycroft around other people.

Mycroft settled into his chair with a quiet sigh. His home office was a sanctuary of sorts. It had no more security than the rest of his home, though that was hardly lacking. The lack of extra security was good, in some ways. It meant that nowhere in his home had a high enough level of checks and failsafes for him to bring work home. And that was exactly how he liked it.

To anyone else the home office would look little different from any other work space. But Mycroft knew the differences well, and cherished them. A moderately more comfortable chair. A tea set stocked with his favourite teas, rather than those that he kept for entertaining, and his favourite mug rather than matching teacups. Everything within his home office was tailored to him, rather than to his image.

With another sigh Mycroft reached for a remote, pressing a few buttons to bring two of the three screens on his desk to life. They flickered on quickly, and Mycroft tapped a few more buttons to cycle through the channels. Each showed a different CCTV scene, and he eventually settled on one which showed him Sherlock.

His brother was standing at a crime scene, gesturing dramatically as he spoke to DI Lestrade. Gregory. Mycroft couldn't help the slight tug of affection at the sight of the other man, patiently listening to what Sherlock had to say and no doubt receiving more than his fair share of insults for the privilege. Finding someone within the force who was not only willing to put up with Sherlock, but who would help him and care about him, without bribery or threat, had been nothing short of a miracle for Mycroft.

He tamped down on the feeling immediately, frowning to himself. It wasn't safe, wasn't sensible, to allow space for feelings like that. Especially given Gregory's recent slip into affection. He could not allow himself to repeat the mistakes he had made in the past. All of those had stemmed from caring, he could not do it again.

The fact that Sherlock had yet to work out that Mycroft and Greg collaborated around his safety was yet another thing that Mycroft was thankful for. John Watson did well enough at keeping an eye on the younger Holmes, but he was as much of an instigator of trouble as protection. He had a tendency to follow Sherlock into trouble rather than keep him out of it. Greg at least tried to keep Sherlock to the spirit of the law, if not to the letter of it.

He fiddled idly with the ring on his right hand as he watched the screen. He wore it still, nearly a decade on, to remind himself. He could not forget, must not forget, what his failures had cost him.

On the screens, two different views of the same scene, Sherlock had given up gesturing and was instead stalking around the murder victim. Suicide staged as a murder, Mycroft could see it just from the CCTV. The victim had meant their final act as a form of revenge. It would take Sherlock until the end of the day to work it out, but he would. Left to it, Lestrade would have brought in the person who had been set up, but would have recognised it for what it was within the week. Despite what Sherlock often said, the DI was not an idiot. Mycroft would never had suggested their arrangement, nor continued it, if there hadn't been something about the other man that interested him. The crimes that The Yard handled were generally far below Mycroft's level of interest, but the DI handled them well, with or without Sherlock's help.

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face, then reached for the remote and switched both screens off. He either needed to get a grip on the situation, or call it off, he told himself firmly. He had no inclination to initiate anything other than what he already had with Lestrade. None.

The agreement that they had was uncomplicated, and served its purpose. There was no use in thinking any further on it. Mycroft nodded decisively to himself, standing from his chair. They would continue as they had been, safely and without complication.


	7. Chapter 7

The phone was ringing when Greg got home from work on Saturday evening, and he picked it up as he toed off his shoes.

"Hello?"

"Greg, how's my favourite little brother?" Jen asked. Greg shrugged off his coat before wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder.

"What do you want?" he asked, keeping the phone in place as he headed into the kitchen.

"What makes you think I want something?" Her tone was mock offended. Greg snorted as he filled a glass of water at the sink.

"You think flattery will get you everywhere, always have," he told her. "Now, what do you want?"

"Well, you were stabbed a few weeks back. Mostly I wanted to check on you, as you didn't bother to call." The scold was obvious, and Greg allowed himself a brief moment of guilt before replying.

"Sorry, Jen. I'm fine. Stitches out and all healed up. I've got a scar, but no problems with the healing. I should've called," he replied. "How're the kids?"

"Well, that's the other thing. It's Jake and Sasha's half term next week. Robert's parents were meant to have them Tuesday evening to Saturday while we're away, but his Dad's come down with something and they don't want the kids to catch it. I know it's short notice, but any chance it'd suit you to have a visit?"

"Gimme one sec," Greg said, putting his glass down and crossing to his calendar. "I've got work Wednesday and Thursday. I'll call in a couple of favours, see if I can get cover. If not, Mrs. Hudson would be happy to keep an eye on them, I'm sure." He grinned. "Sure they want to spend half a week with me?"

"They'd prefer their uncle over their grandparents," Jen told him. "Jake thinks you have the best job ever, as I'm sure you know. Sasha will be fine so long as you have wi-fi or a mobile signal."

"I've got both. I'll make some calls, see what I can do about those days. Let me know when their train's going to get in once you've booked it, I'll pick them up at the station."

"You're a life saver, little brother."

"Yeah yeah, don't know what you'd do without me," Greg told her. "I'll call you tomorrow, to get train times and such."

"Thanks Greg. Take care of yourself."

"Will do. Love you sis."

"Love you too. Bye."

Greg shook his head as the line went dead, picking up a pen and making a note on the calendar. He finished his glass of water before picking the phone up again and tapping in Dimmock's number.

"Michael, it's Greg," he started. "I don't suppose you could do me a favour?"

Jen's phone rang through the next morning, and Greg leant against the kitchen side, pouring milk into his cereal as he waited for the answerphone.

"Hey sis, your favourite little brother here. Let me know when the kids will be here on Tuesday evening. The later the better, I'm working until two and you know how work likes to run over. I've got Wednesday off, but I'll be in work Thursday morning, meeting I can't miss. Mrs. Hudson says she'll have the kids for the morning. And I'll be about for them in the afternoon and until whenever they head off on Saturday. Hear from you soon. Love to you all."

Greg hung up, reached to put the phone back into its cradle, then paused. He still had another call to make. Dialling in another number he pressed the phone to his ear, and waited as it also rang through to the answerphone.

"Mycroft, hi. Listen, family thing has come up, and I'm not going to be able to make it on Wednesday. I'll see you next time, instead." Greg paused, unsure for a moment as to how to finish the message. "Take care."

"Uncle Greg!" Greg was almost winded as arms wrapped around his waist and a very enthusiastic ten year old boy collided with him. He huffed out a breathless laugh, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders and ruffling his hair with the other hand.

"Hey Jake. When did you get so big, hmm?" Greg asked. "You're going to have to stop growing, or you'll be as tall as me." Jake laughed, letting go and grinning up at Greg.

Sasha joined them at a more sedate pace, standing with her arms folded as she looked up at Greg.

"What, your uncle doesn't get a hug these days?" Greg smiled when the fourteen year old uncrossed her arms and let him pull her into a hug. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"'s good to be here," she told him, wrapping her arms around him for a moment.

"Good to have you here, kiddo," he replied. "Right, I've got your bags guys. Stick close, your mum will kill me if I lose you. We're picking up pizza on the way home."

Three hours later Greg had them both home. Empty pizza boxes sat on the table and all three of them were dozing in front of a film. Greg blinked awake when the credits started to play, stretching out his back and standing from his armchair.

Sasha blinked up at him blearily as he gently shook her shoulder. "Wha' happened?" she asked, fighting a yawn as she spoke.

"Time to get you to bed, sweetheart," he replied. "Go brush your teeth, you're in the spare room." Sasha nodded, slipping off of the sofa and leaving the room.

Greg patted Jake's shoulder next, chuckling when he snuggled deeper into the sofa cushions instead of waking up. "Come on kiddo, you need to go get ready for bed while I make up the sofa." Jake grumbled, but hauled himself off of the sofa and followed his sister through to the bathroom.

Greg made the sofa up quickly, having it ready with blankets and pillows by the time Jake returned from the bathroom. The young boy was valiantly fighting yawns, already dressed in his pyjamas.

"Night Uncle Greg," Jake said as he settled down on the sofa. Greg ruffled his hair briefly, then tucked the blankets in around him.

"Night night kiddo. Sleep well, you know where I am if you need me." He waited for the young boy's nod before leaving the room.

"What're we doing this week?" Sasha asked as soon as Greg stepped into the guest bedroom. He chuckled, crossing the room to close to curtains before replying.

"Loads of stuff. You've got a half day with Mrs. Hudson while I go to a meeting, but otherwise I'm all yours. So if there's anything you really want to do, get your votes in now," he told her.

"Can we go on the Eye?" Sasha asked.

"I'll see if I can get us tickets," he promised. "Now, off to sleep with you, sweetheart. Goodnight."

"Night," she agreed. She settled in under the duvet, smiling when he tucked it in around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead before flicking the light off and leaving.

Greg managed to get hold of three tickets for the Eye for the next evening. Their start time was seven o'clock, and by the time they were at the top, Greg was hardly even aware that it was Wednesday. His thoughts were far from the time he would normally be spending with Mycroft, and instead focused on the kids. Sasha was gripping his hand tight as she peered out of the glass, staring out over the lights of London and loudly informing him that the ride was 'the best thing ever'. Jake had crawled into his lap, murmuring something about not liking heights, but was apparently content to look at the view so long as he could cling to Greg.

He was not at home to see the black car which pulled up at the curb. It idled there for just over a quarter of an hour before pulling away.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft stood at his bedroom window, smiling slightly to himself as the car pulled up outside of his house. His week had been stressful, with several communications issues arising at both his office and his home. He was looking forward to seeing Greg, to the release that their meeting would offer. There was something to be enjoyed in the time when he did not have to worry about politics and propriety.

The easy rapport that they had rebuilt since Greg's slip up was soothing, and Mycroft could appreciate that the meetings had become an important part of his week. Not that he could not do without them if he had to. It would not do to become too reliant on them, on Greg, after all.

His smile dropped as the car simply idled by the curb for a few seconds before pulling away without Greg stepping out. Something was wrong, clearly. He considered the empty pavement for a moment before turning and walking through to his study.

Last time that they had missed a meeting Greg had been hurt. The thought of Greg hurt somewhere, Sherlock likely with him, made Mycroft's stomach twist uncomfortably. He switched his computer on as he settled into his desk chair, tapping in the required passwords and quickly pulling up the CCTV coverage which kept up with Sherlock. It was not monitored in depth most of the time, but someone was always making sure that they knew where he was.

The CCTV showed the outside of Baker Street, and Sherlock's silhouette was clear in the window. Greg was not in any trouble with Sherlock in tow, at least. Mycroft quickly clicked open another screen, scanning the work rosters for Scotland Yard which filled his screen. Greg was not supposed to be at work, in fact he had rather a significant chunk of time booked off.

It was too much, Mycroft decided, to try and track the DI down. He was clearly in the middle of something or had other plans. Perhaps, after several months, he had decided to try again with his ex-wife, though Mycroft thought it unlikely. Perhaps he had found himself willing to date again, and begun a new relationship.

Whatever the reason for his absence, Mycroft was sure that he was not in any trouble that he could not handle. The fact that Greg had apparently decided that it was not necessary to inform him of the change was annoying only in so far as he could have made alternative plans. There was always work to be done. And quite frankly, it was a little rude to cancel any sort of meeting without proper warning.

Mycroft shutdown the computer with a quiet sigh. Things changed. Arrangements like that which he had had with Greg were not designed to last in the long term. It was exactly the reason that he did not get involved in anything other than sex. Had he found himself beginning to care, Greg's decision to end the meetings might actually have caused him some distress. Something that he most certainly did not have the time for. As it was, all that it meant was that he would have to start considering alternative options.

Running a hand over his face, Mycroft stood from the chair and headed towards his bedroom. He had the evening off, and an early night would no doubt do him good.

Thursday morning passed painfully slowly, and Greg found himself spending more time in the meeting checking his watch than actually listening to what was being said. The meeting was dull, and referred mostly to things that Greg was still catching up on. Between his time off and desk duty a few weeks previously, he was still behind the curve on everything going on in the office. He knew that he was out of the loop, and if anything he should have been paying more attention than he usually would. But he could not bring himself to focus.

The end of the meeting reminded him oddly of the end of the last lesson before the holidays when he had been at school. He gathered up his notes and slipped out of the room, and the Yard, before anyone could corner him for a catch up chat. Usually he enjoyed talking to his co-workers, but the meeting had overrun already and he did not want to leave the kids with Mrs. Hudson for too long. Not that she would mind, but there was something distinctly disquieting about leaving them so close to Sherlock and his potential influence for any longer than necessary.

He picked up Sasha and Jake without incident, stopping in for several minutes to talk to Mrs. Hudson, but refusing her offer of tea and cake. They had a day and a half left, as the kids were to catch an early train on Saturday, and he intended to make the most of every minute.

They spent the afternoon in Regent's Park. Greg bought them all ice cream and they settled on a patch of grass, enjoying the chance to make the most of the sun.

"How come they have such big parks in the middle of the city?" Jake asked, sprawling out on the grass when he was finished with his ice cream.

Greg smiled, leaning back on one hand and closing his eyes as he turned his face towards the sun. "Because some people, like me, love the city. I grew up in the countryside, like you two, and I miss the space sometimes. It's not the same here, but it's better than nothing."

"I think it's a good idea," Jake announced.

They packed Friday with as much as they could manage. Greg got the kids up early, and after breakfast they headed over to the Camden markets. Greg didn't visit them often, but Sasha was clearly in her element in the small, slightly off-beat clothes shops. She spent her pocket money on a dress, and when she stepped out of the changing room wearing it, Greg couldn't help but realise quite how grown up she was. It made him feel old, more than anything, and he hurried them along before he could get too emotional over it.

In the afternoon he gave in to Jake's requests to go to the Natural History Museum. He was obsessed, Sasha explained, with the film 'Night at the Museum'. He spent the entire trip torn between fascination at the displays and explaining to Greg exactly what happened in each room during the film.

Once the museum was closed they went home to change (Sasha wanted the chance to wear her new dress) and headed out for dinner. It wasn't anything particularly exciting, just one of the chain Italian places near to his flat. But it was a nice change of pace from cooking, and Greg was honestly impressed by how much ice cream Jack managed to put away for pudding.

Sasha sent a few texts throughout the meal, and Greg found her ability to keep eye contact and conversation with him going while she typed up a text slightly disconcerting. She put the phone away while they were eating, though. He was used to Sherlock's phone habits, talking and texting and blanking everyone else out entirely. So he didn't feel the need to kick up a fuss about Sasha sending a couple of texts in between courses.

By the time they arrived back at Greg's flat Jake was asleep and Sasha was yawning. Greg had had to carry the young boy out of the restaurant, propped on his hip. His back was not thanking him for the decision. Sasha made her way through to the spare room as Greg settled Jake on the sofa without bothering to wake him up. The clothes would need to go into the dirty wash anyway, a night in them would do no harm.

Once Jake was tucked in, Greg made his way through to the spare room to say goodnight to Sasha.

"Boys are stupid," Sasha muttered as Greg opened the door, scowling down at her lap as she crossed her arms.

"That they are, sweetheart," Greg agreed. "Any particular one?"

Sasha shook her head, glancing at her mobile as it buzzed, before pulling a face and putting it down again without bothering to reply. "Uncle Greg, what do you do when someone you like doesn't like you back?"

"Well, that depends on you. You could mope about it, but it doesn't seem like that's going to get you anywhere, hey? Or you can accept that they're just not interested. It hurts, but you've still got to get on with life. You can't make someone like you, kiddo." He settled onto the bed beside her, letting her lean into his side.

Sasha managed a small smile, and Greg relaxed slightly. He really didn't think he was the best person to give her relationship advice, but he seemed to be doing okay, he thought.

"Is that what you did, after you broke up with Aunt Lucy? Just get on?" Sasha asked quietly, and Greg paused.

"I suppose so, yeah. Your Aunt and I loved each other very much when we got married. But sometimes people change," Greg told her. "Not always for the worse, but it can mean that something that worked once doesn't anymore." And sometimes, he thought, your significant other has a string of affairs that you only miss because you want to. Not that that was a discussion to have with his niece. Neither of the kids knew the details, and they didn't need to. "So it wasn't quite the same, I don't think."

"Oh." Sasha seemed to consider that for a moment before looking back up at him. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Change isn't always bad," Greg told her. "Sometimes, people change and get closer. People are always changing. Sometime you can make it work, sometimes you can't." He shrugged. "You've got to know when loving someone is hurting you both more than helping."

"'s been a year now, since your divorce," Sasha commented. "Are you dating again?"

"A year's not all that long," Greg told her. "And no, not yet. I'm fine, I really am."

"I think Mum worries that you're lonely sometimes," Sasha said. Greg smiled, shaking his head.

"No. I've got plenty to keep me busy. Tell your Mum not to worry if she brings it up again, hmm?"

"Okay." Sasha nodded, muffling a yawn with the back of her hand.

"You'd better get off to sleep, kiddo. Lots of travelling to do tomorrow." Greg pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, then stood from the bed and stepped towards the door. "Good night."

"Night," Sasha agreed, checking her phone again before putting it aside and climbing into bed.

"I don't want to leave," Jake muttered, his voice muffled where his face was pressed into Greg's shirt. "Can't we stay longer?" Greg chuckled, ruffling his hair.

"I wish you could. But've I've got work, and you've got to be back in school on Monday. I'll see you again soon, okay?" Greg promised.

"Before Christmas?" Jake asked. Greg nodded.

"Before Christmas," he agreed. "Go on, onto the train before you miss it. Be careful, make sure you get off at the right stop."

"We'll manage, Uncle Greg," Sasha told him. She moved forwards for a quick hug before taking Jake's hand and stepping onto the train.

"Text me when you get home," Greg told her. "Let me know you got there safe." Sasha nodded, waving as the train doors closed. Greg raised his hand in reply, standing and watching the train until it was out of sight.

Greg's step was light as he made his way to the front door of Mycroft's house. It had been a good week, between Sasha and Jake's visit and really getting his teeth back into work. His team had wrapped up a case that morning, and others were coming together nicely. In all, it felt rather like for once the universe was conspiring with him, rather than against him.

The door did not open when he twisted the handle, and he paused. That was not normal. Mycroft had been leaving the door unlocked for him for months. Still, it was not a problem. Greg pressed the doorbell instead, humming lightly to himself as he waited for it to be answered.

"Gregory?" Greg thought he may have heard the hint of a question in the word, but decided not to comment on it. Instead he offered Mycroft a smile.

"Hi. Can I come in?" he asked, stepping inside when Mycroft moved out of the way. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all. I simply wasn't expecting you," Mycroft said. Greg finished slipping his shoes off before turning to Mycroft, frowning.

"Why on Earth not? It's Wednesday, isn't it? Work hasn't been bad enough to lose track of what day it is."

"You weren't here last week. I presumed that you wished to end our agreement," Mycroft said matter of factly. Greg gaped for a moment before forcing himself to close his mouth and step towards Mycroft.

"I called, left a message," he said. "I had my niece and nephew staying for a few days, that's all." Greg stepped closer again, grinning as Mycroft backed into the door.

"Oh." Mycroft seemed to consider the explanation for a moment. "We were having some problems with the communication systems," he allowed.

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "And you thought because I didn't turn up once I didn't want to see you again?" he asked.

"It appears that I was- mistaken," Mycroft said eventually, the last word apparently problematic for him and not one that he was used to. Greg laughed again. He had thought that Sherlock was the only one given to melodramatics, but it seemed that Mycroft could be similar.

Mycroft stepped away from the door, pushing past Greg and heading for the stairs when Greg laughed. Greg caught his wrist, pulling him back into a lingering kiss. He recognised the beginnings of a Holmes cold shoulder when he saw one, and realised almost too late that Mycroft thought that he was being mocked.

Greg took the time to press them flush against each other, slipping a hand down Mycroft's back and taking the opportunity to take a cheeky squeeze at a handful of arse. "I'm sorry you didn't get my message. I'll keep trying until I hear back from you if it happens again," Greg murmured. "If I ever do decide to call this off, believe me I'll let you know about it. I'm not just going to stop turning up."

Mycroft nodded, the movement almost hesitant. Greg gave Mycroft's arse another squeeze before letting go and turning Mycroft towards the stairs. "Let's go, then. We can make up for last week while we're at it."


	9. Chapter 9

"Here's to another one convicted."

Greg raised his glass towards Sally's, the clink echoing around their small booth. The bar was busy and loud enough for privacy without requiring that they shout or lean closer to be heard. It was a favourite of theirs, and they often visited for a drink or two after finishing up a long case.

The conviction on one of their cases had come through earlier in the day, a life sentence for the perpetrator of a vicious triple homicide. Finding and arresting their suspect was always a high point in the case, but a conviction was the real end goal. Getting dangerous people off of the streets, in this case for as long as Greg believed they deserved, was always the real measure of success.

"And to many more," Sally agreed, before taking a long drag of her cider. "Glad that one's over."

Greg nodded, lifting his beer to take a sip. So many of their cases were difficult and could be upsetting if they let the details get under their skin. This had most definitely ranked as one of the nastiest that he had seen. He shook off the thought of the two dead kids and their mother, killed by their stepfather. That was not why they were there. They had done what they could, stopped him from hurting anyone else, even if they hadn't been in the position to prevent the crime.

"You know," Sally cut into his thoughts. "Those rumours are still going around, at work."

"Jesus, don't people have anything better to do that subscribe to office gossip?" he asked.

"Apparently not. Last I heard, we were considering living together." Sally smirked, apparently more amused by the thought than annoyed.

The rumours were not malicious, as far as Greg had been able to work out. Just annoying, and very slightly concerning. While the force did not have any explicit rules about dating within ranks, any rumours which spread too far, with him being her immediate superior, would not exactly be brilliant for either of them.

"Ridiculous," he muttered. Sally laughed lightly, shaking her head.

"They'll get over it, and I think most people don't really believe it." She shrugged. "You know what it's like, everyone figures a man and a woman can't just be friends."

Greg pulled a face, taking a long sip of beer as he considered what she had said. They lapsed into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the occasional observation about the other patrons from one or the other, none of which required much in the way of a reply. Greg replaced their drinks twice, studiously ignoring the other people in the bar as he collected their glasses.

"Wouldn't it be weird, though?" Greg asked, part way through his third pint. "If we-" he gestured vaguely between them, pulling a face.

Sally choked on the cider that she was trying to swallow, taking a few moments to calm down and regain her breath. "Wow, Greg. Really that awful an idea?" she asked, though there was a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

"Sally, you are a lovely human being. But I have absolutely no non-platonic feelings for you," Greg said, voice mock-serious.

Sally grinned. "The feeling's mutual," she told him. "Now, I do believe it's my round." She stood from her seat, heading towards the bar with a wiggle of her hips and a wink over her shoulder. Greg laughed, shaking his head fondly at her back. She was a good sort, Sally, as well as a fierce friend, and he was ever grateful that he was on her good side.

Mycroft's day had been unreasonably long, and he rubbed a hand over his face before reaching for his coffee mug. He had eschewed tea in favour of the more caffeinated drink several hours previously, as his stint in the office passed the thirty six hour mark. He had arrived early on Monday morning, and it was now fast approaching late on Tuesday evening.

He had at least half an hour to himself, however, before the next video call that he was required to be a part of. Standing, he took a quick lap of his office, stretching out sore and underused muscles and trying not to wince at the discomfort.

Back in his desk chair he considered, momentarily, taking a short nap. A fifteen minute power nap would probably do wonders for his energy levels. Yet the idea did not particularly appeal. He would certainly not oversleep, but it was possible that he would feel slightly groggy for the video call, and that was not acceptable.

Instead he switched on a monitor to the side of his main screen, flicking through channels until a CCTV image of the outside of 221B came into view. Sherlock had destroyed any bugs placed inside the flat several times, and Mycroft had eventually conceded defeat, agreeing to allow Sherlock that one small space to himself. The outside of the flat told Mycroft all that he needed to know, regardless.

The curtains were still open, despite the late hour, and the lights on inside. Sherlock was home and his shadow could be seen moving around, though Mycroft could not actually see his brother. Doctor Watson was not, for he would surely have shut the curtains when it began to fall dark.

Mycroft fiddled idly with the remote, flicking through a few more channels without really paying much attention to what was on them. They were kept up to date with current footage of anyone who he deemed it necessary to keep an eye on. Sherlock, obviously, came top of that list. Doctor Watson was indeed out of 221B, finishing up a late shift at work, sorting paperwork rather than seeing patients. Molly Hooper was at home. Mycroft could not make head nor tail of Sherlock's apparent attachment to her. But between the work that she did with Sherlock and the younger Holmes' very vague sense of civility towards her (at least, compared to his usual demeanour), Mycroft had decided that she was important enough to keep an eye on.

CCTV images showed the outside of 221B once again, their focus this time on the back of the downstairs flat, all lights off as Mrs. Hudson was most often early to bed and early to rise. Mycroft kept cycling through, flicking through several images of the outside of homes, and two of the inside of New Scotland Yard. He promised himself that he would not linger on any of them, it was not necessary. He liked to keep tabs on all of the members of the force that Sherlock worked with, not just the main players, just in case. After all, he hardly needed any of the London Met disappearing from their homes and loved ones due to a tenuous connection with his brother.

He broke the promise to himself as soon as Lestrade appeared on the screen. The video quality was poor, a cheap CCTV camera in the corner of a bar which was picking up neither colour nor sound. It's positioning meant that it overlooked the bar, and had a direct line of sight into the booth in which Lestrade was sitting.

Mycroft knew that he should skip past the channel. Lestrade's personal life, where it did not overlap with Sherlock, was exactly none of his business. But the bright smile on Greg's face, clear even through the poor quality of the CCTV, paused his hand.

He recognised that smile. Greg used that smile at their meetings, sometimes, if he was particularly amused by something that Mycroft had said or done. Though he had never let it show, that specific smile made his stomach twist. It usually meant that Lestrade was about to kiss him, to press him back against something until he was clinging to the other man, moaning and panting for breath. He shook the train of thought off quickly before it could get any further.

Mycroft turned his attention away from Greg and towards the other person at the table. The person on the receiving end of that smile. He studied her for a few seconds before working out who she was. Sally Donovan, a Detective Sergeant in Greg's team. She was not under surveillance, as an individual, though his team knew how to find her should there be concern that she was in any danger. She had made her thoughts on Sherlock quite clear. Mycroft could not blame her in the slightest, given the way that his younger brother treated both her and her workplace.

Lestrade and Donovan were friends, Mycroft knew. It was not entirely beyond the realms of possibility that they would reach a point at which they wished to alter that relationship. Lestrade had been divorced for a year now, Mycroft mused. His marriage had been falling apart since long before that.

That Lestrade was ready to move on into a romantic relationship, rather than a purely physical one, was not entirely unlikely. Mycroft ignored the twist of something in his gut at the thought. There were other indicators, the affection with which Lestrade had kissed his forehead some weeks ago being just one of them.

It had been bound to happen eventually, of course, and Mycroft had long known it. Lestrade was a loving man, sentimental and deeply loyal. Mycroft had never expected weekly scheduled sex to be enough for the other man for long. Once he was sure of the situation he would have to cancel the car which collected Lestrade each Wednesday.

Sally stood from the table as Mycroft watched, and he tried to focus on what she was doing as she stepped away from the table, then turned back. A comment, perhaps, or a wink. Lestrade was laughing, looking both comfortable and happy with the situation.

With a shake of his head, Mycroft shut down the screen. He had a video call to make. Besides which, what Lestrade did was none of his business. They were not in an exclusive relationship. Really, as far as Mycroft was concerned, what they had could not be considered a relationship at all. If Lestrade wanted to spend his free evenings flirting and going on dates with pretty women from his department, that was entirely his right.

It did not, Mycroft told himself firmly, bother him in the slightest.


	10. Chapter 10

p dir="ltr"Shutting the front door behind himself, Mycroft turned back to double lock it before leaning his forehead against the cool wood. He was beyond exhausted. He had settled into his office early on Monday morning and, unless his internal clock was entirely wrong, it was now in the wee hours of Thursday./p  
p dir="ltr"Something moved deeper in the house and Mycroft startled slightly at the realisation that there was someone else in there with him. He did not panic - his security meant that no one who was not allowed would be in his house - but he did permit himself a moment of concern. He was not in any mood to deal with Sherlock, and every other option that he could think of meant more work. He was in no condition to deal with any more work and he knew it./p  
p dir="ltr"He frowned as a familiar figure stepped out of the living room and into the hallway. "Gregory," he said, trying to keep the confused tone out of his voice. "What are you doing here?"/p  
p dir="ltr""It's Wednesday," Lestrade told him. "Or it was, when I got here a few hours ago."/p  
p dir="ltr""Ah, of course," Mycroft agreed, forcing himself to focus. "I shall be just a moment." He gestured towards the downstairs bathroom, hoping that the movement suitably encompassed the fact that he needed a few moments to gather himself and freshen up./p  
p dir="ltr"Lestrade nodded, offering him a slight smile before heading back into the lounge. Mycroft made his way into the bathroom, running a flannel over his face in an attempt to wake himself up. His contact lenses were too much, and after several attempts at removing each one he grasped the edge of the sink, bracing himself against it. He forced himself to take a deep breath, looking up at the mirror and trying not to scowl at the sight of bloodshot eyes which greeted him./p  
p dir="ltr""Contacts?" Lestrade asked quietly from the doorway. Mycroft had not even realised that he was there./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft nodded, half turning as Lestrade crossed the room towards him. He moved without protest when Lestrade pushed him to sit on the closed toilet seat. It was far too much hard work to try and reject any suggestion that the other man made./p  
p dir="ltr""Look up at me," Lestrade said. He cupped Mycroft's chin gently, tilting his head back. "Do your best not to blink." He carefully held Mycroft's eyelids out of the way with one hand, a finger pressing gently on the thin film of the contact lense. "Look up." Mycroft did as he was asked, and a slight scrape later the lense was out. "Are they dailies?"/p  
p dir="ltr""Yes," Mycroft replied, blinking a few times to soothe the burn in his eye. He half squinted, trying to see when he had proper vision in only one eye./p  
p dir="ltr""How long have you been wearing them?" Lestrade asked, tilting Mycroft's head gently to the side./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft shrugged. "Three days," he replied. Lestrade tutted as he lifted the second lense from Mycroft's eye./p  
p dir="ltr""You should at least remember to change them," he scolded. His hand lingered on Mycroft's cheek for a moment before he turned to brush the thin films off of his hands and into the bin. "But I'm sure you already know that."/p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft nodded shortly, blinking rapidly as the burn faded from his eyes. Once he felt capable he stood, struggling to stay steady on his feet as he did so. It was Wednesday, sort of, and Lestrade was not there to look after him. He only caught his balance fully when the other man caught his elbow./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft turned towards Lestrade, stepping into his space and leaning in for a kiss. The DI returned the kiss willingly, letting go of Mycroft's elbow and bringing his hands up to Mycroft's face. Mycroft shut his eyes as the other man's thumbs stroked gently across his cheeks./p  
p dir="ltr"Lestrade pulled away, offering Mycroft a soft smile. "Let's get you to bed, hmm?" he suggested./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft nodded. That made sense, of course. They certainly couldn't have sex in the bathroom. It would break their usual routine further than they already had, and he could barely focus on standing and kissing at the same time./p  
p dir="ltr"Lestrade propelled him up the stairs with a hand on the small of his back. Mycroft stopped once they got into his room, frowning. The actions required between where he was and getting into bed suddenly seemed far too complex./p  
p dir="ltr"Lestrade's hand moved from his back to his shoulder, and Mycroft shut his eyes as lips brushed the shell of his ear. "I'm going to undress you now, okay?" Lestrade's voice was low, intimate, and Mycroft shivered slightly before nodding./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft stood still as the DI reached for the buttons of his suit jacket. He let Lestrade undress him, working through the sets of buttons and zips which constituted the complex outfit. He was used to the routine, though he did think that Lestrade was rather overdressed. He stood beside the bed in his pants, watching Lestrade hang the suit away in the wardrobe./p  
p dir="ltr"Crossing the room, Lestrade considered him for a moment before urging him into the bed. Mycroft rolled onto his back, reaching vaguely in the other man's direction. Lestrade chuckled and Mycroft forced himself to remember it. It was a fond sound, rather than a cruel one, and Mycroft decided that he liked it./p  
p dir="ltr""Sure?" Greg asked. He was smiling again, soft and fond. Mycroft couldn't decide if he liked the smile or not. It made his stomach do things that he couldn't entirely understand, or even begin to analyse./p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft frowned for a moment before nodding, reaching for Lestrade a little more pointedly. He chuckled again before quickly stripping down to his boxers, folding his clothes over the back of a chair./p  
p dir="ltr"When Lestrade crawled into the bed Mycroft shifted towards him. He moved into another kiss, pressing close to the older man. Lestrade hummed contentedly and Mycroft shifted even closer. They were there for a reason, after all, and it was not for the sake of sleep. "I fear I may have to leave the majority of effort to you," he murmured when they parted./p  
p dir="ltr""Not tonight. You're dead on your feet, so none of that," Lestrade replied. "Anthea called while you were on your way here, to let me know you were coming. Said you're not to go in tomorrow, and could I pass on the message."/p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft frowned, trying to make sense of the situation and what Lestrade had said. "Why are you here?" he asked, stifling a yawn and fighting against the weight which seemed attached to his eyelids. The answer was important, though he was not sure why./p  
p dir="ltr""I was here already." Lestrade shifted, his shoulders moving in what Mycroft could only assume was a shrug. "Can I stay?"/p  
p dir="ltr"Mycroft considered the question for a few long seconds, a frown once again scrunching up his forehead. It was a difficult question, he thought, though he could not figure out why that was the case. "Yes," he said eventually. Lestrade was warm, and comfortable. Asking him to leave seemed like far more effort than it was worth. Something was wrong with the situation, the way that Lestrade was acting, though he could not place what it was. "Not like this."/p  
p dir="ltr""Tell me what you want," Lestrade replied, shifting back to give Mycroft some space. The politician rolled onto his other side, reaching back for Lestrade's arm and pulling until his back was pressed against the other man's chest./p  
p dir="ltr""Like this," he murmured. He could feel Lestrade's hesitation, though he was too tired to either analyse it or do anything about it. As he drifted off to sleep he was almost sure that he felt a gentle press of lips to the back of his head./p 


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft woke up slowly, revelling in the comfort of a good mattress and the warmth of both a thick duvet and another person. He shuffled back towards the other body, deciding that he could allow himself to enjoy what was obviously a dream for at least a short while.

The dream itself was a semi-regular one, when he actually slept for a reasonable length of time. It was always pleasant, especially now that he was better than he had once been at fighting off the stab of guilt which often accompanied it. The dream was all the better for being lucid, in Mycroft's opinion. He could enjoy it without the confusion of trying to think himself out of the situation, as he so often managed to do with dreams.

He dozed for a few minutes before the dawning realisation that something was not quite right set in.

Breath tickled the back of his neck, rather than ruffling his hair as he had come to expect it to. The chest behind him was too broad, not fitting quite right against his back. The arm wrapped around his chest was tanned white, instead of the darker, half-caste tone that he would have expected.

Mycroft shut his eyes and kept very still. The dream had not changed even slightly in the near ten years that he had been having it. The idea that he was now substituting in Lestrade was concerning.

As he started to drift off again, pleased to be leaving the disconcerting dream behind, the body behind him shifted. A loud yawn broke the silence of the room, punctuated by the sharp cracks of a jaw stretched too far, and a murmured, 'Shit'. He should wake himself up, Mycroft thought, check that he was truly dreaming. But the draw of sleep was too strong, the exhaustion of several days still lingering. He fell asleep again, convinced that he would wake up alone as he always did.

Mycroft woke up again nearly an hour later to the smell of good, strong coffee permeating the house. He was alone in bed, as he expected to be, and he rolled onto his back, stretching. He inhaled sharply at the burn of moving sore limbs, relaxing until the pain faded. It took him a few moments to realise that there should not have been anyone in the house to put coffee on. Mycroft sat bolt upright as memories from the previous night filtered into his mind.

He had not been dreaming. Lestrade had stayed overnight. A glance around the room suggested that the other man was awake and dressed - and apparently downstairs making coffee. Mycroft shut his eyes, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself. Lestrade was not meant to be in his kitchen making coffee. Was not meant to be in his kitchen full stop.

Mycroft pulled himself out of bed, wincing as he put weight onto his legs. He dressed quickly, forgoing a full suit but opting for black trousers, a shirt and waistcoat. He did not need his full suit, but the smartness of the clothes at least made him feel less uncomfortable with the situation.

He ventured downstairs slowly, still tired and sore. His phone was in hand, ready to call to have Lestrade removed should he feel it necessary. He doubted that it would be. The Detective Inspector was likely to leave when asked, and Mycroft doubted that he would become aggressive.

Lestrade looked up as Mycroft stepped into the kitchen. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it with a shake of his head. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tracing the path of deep furrows which already existed. Clearly the action had been repeated several times that morning already.

The other man's discomfort put Mycroft slightly more at ease. At least he was not the only one who saw something wrong with the situation. He crossed the room and poured himself a coffee before settling in the chair across from Lestrade.

"I believe that our arrangement has once again overstepped its bounds," Mycroft said without preamble. He could not work out if Lestrade's apparent wince meant that his meaning had been received properly, or had been too blunt. "I think that it would be best if you left, Detective Inspector." Greg's flinch at the use of his title made Mycroft want to stop, this time, but he forced himself to plough on. It needed to be said. "I will cancel the car."

"And if I turn up anyway?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"I might not let you in." Mycroft hated how unsure the reply sounded. He should have given a clear answer, he knew. He should not let Lestrade in, it would be for the best.

"I'll take a might," Lestrade told him, standing from his chair and placing his mug by the sink. "I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Perhaps." He should have said no, Mycroft berated himself immediately, but he could not convince himself to.

Lestrade nodded briefly, crossing towards the door. He paused for a moment, apparently considering saying something else. Instead he shook his head, leaving and closing the front door carefully behind him.

Mycroft stood, abandoning his coffee mug on the breakfast bar and bracing his weight against the back of one of the bar stools. Dream or no, Lestrade was not in Richard's place. His subconscious aside, Lestrade's place was in his bed, he reminded himself, if there anymore. Not in his life, and certainly not in his heart.


	12. Chapter 12

The car did not arrive the following Wednesday evening. Greg gave it an extra fifteen minutes before accepting that it was not going to turn up. He considered making his way across to the house anyway. He knew the way and Mycroft had said that he might be let in, after all. It was the possibility that tempted Greg. Not that he knew what he would say, or what the point of going at all would be.

As he was thinking about it he heard a car pull up outside. He glanced out of the window, wondering if it was the car turning up late. The light blue, three door Ford KA was a nice enough car, but Greg was fairly sure that it had nothing to do with Mycroft.

The driver's side door opened as he watched, and Anthea unfolded herself from the front seat. She looked up at the window, catching Greg's eye and nodding once. He hurried to pull his shoes on and head out to the car.

Anthea was leaning against the passenger side of the vehicle, fiddling with her phone, when Greg stepped out onto the street. She slipped it into a pocket, then pulled the door open.

"Get in, Detective Inspector," she said. It did not cross his mind to argue or ask questions.

They travelled in silence, and Greg wondered absently if he was being disappeared. If he was heading off to some empty warehouse to await his death. Sherlock had once warned him that Mycroft was one of the most dangerous men he would ever meet. Greg did not think, for once, that it was hyperbole.

Anthea pulled to a stop smoothly outside of Mycroft's house, but did not unlock the doors, and Greg relaxed slightly. He wasn't going to die, it seemed.

"A minute, Detective Inspector," she said as Greg reached for the door handle. "Mr. Holmes does not know that you are to visit today. As I am sure you are aware, he has canceled the car."

Greg nodded. "If that's the case, are you sure I should go in?" he asked.

"Allow me to be entirely clear. Mr. Holmes' private life is none of my concern. As such, up to this point his involvement with you has been of no interest to me. My job is to appear as his PA to those not paying attention and to make sure that his work is in no way compromised. I care not if you return to your agreement, or decide to never see each other again, nor if you decide to move in together, obtain a civil partnership and adopt seven children and nine dogs." Anthea paused, glancing first down at her phone, then back to Greg.

"All that concerns me is that Mr. Holmes' work is no longer affected negatively. The situation with you is compromising his focus. I am telling you now, reach a conclusion to the situation, or I shall be forced to create one."

The locks clicked open and Greg nodded before opening his door and climbing out of the car. She pulled away as soon as he closed the door, and Greg made his way up to the front of the house.

He tried the handle, found it locked, and knocked sharply on the door instead. It was several long seconds before he heard movement inside and the door opened.

"I did not send a car," Mycroft said, not opening the gap any wider than required to see Greg.

"You said you might let me in, anyway," Greg replied.

Mycroft considered him, then stepped aside to let him into the house. "What exactly are you here for, Gregory?"

Greg stepped inside, toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket. He left them where he normally did, then turned back to Mycroft. "We need to talk about last week. And after that we probably need to talk about next week, too."

"Certainly," Mycroft agreed. He lead the way through to the kitchen, pausing at the counter. "May I offer you a drink?"

"Yeah, that'd be good," Greg said. He settled himself at the breakfast bar, watching as Mycroft hesitated. "Soft, please. Tea?"

Mycroft nodded, apparently spurred into action by the familiar routine of tea making. Greg watched him move around the kitchen, accepting a steaming mug of tea with a smile. "Thanks."

"Not at all," Mycroft replied.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping at tea and avoiding looking at each other. Eventually Greg lifted his head, putting his mug down and propping his elbows on the counter.

"So, last week," he said, watching for Mycroft's reaction. The other man's shoulders tensed slightly, his chin lifting as he looked up. "Where do you want to start?"

"Why were you still here?" Mycroft asked, directly to the point.

"I was told I could wait for you, that you probably wouldn't be long." Greg shrugged. "Thought I'd stay an hour, then head home if you were still out." He lifted a hand, rubbing it across the back of his neck. "I nodded off on the sofa, didn't wake up until you got back."

Mycroft nodded, seeming to accept the explanation, and Greg relaxed slightly. It had not even crossed his mind, given everything else that had happened, that it might have seemed odd that he had waited for so long.

They paused, considering each other for a few long moments. Greg was the first to look away, slightly disconcerted by the prolonged eye contact.

"Why did you stay?" Greg thought that Mycroft was probably trying to sound cold, to distance himself from the question. Instead he sounded almost painfully unsure, and the realisation that Mycroft didn't remember hit Greg like a truck.

"You asked me to," Greg said. "And you looked- I couldn't leave." He shrugged, unable to finish what he had been going to say. Mycroft had looked vulnerable, but he did not think the information would go down particularly well with the other man.

"But you wanted to," Mycroft finished for him. Greg shook his head.

"I would've have stayed if I didn't want to, you know that." He finished the last of his tea, pulling a face at the taste of cold dregs. "Look, I know this broke the rules, again." Greg ran his hands over his face. "But I figure they weren't working out all that great anyway."

"There is no issue with the rules," Mycroft said. "It is your inability to stick to them that has caused the problem."

"You asked me to stay," Greg said, his tone snappier than he had intended. He took a moment to calm his tone before continuing. "You can't change the rules one minute and back the next and expect me to know what's going on."

"As I said last week, I believe our involvement has run its course. If we can not stay to the predetermined rules-"

"What are you so worried about?" Greg cut over him, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"I am not worried," Mycroft replied stiffly. "I am practical. I have neither time nor inclination for a relationship."

_Mycroft woke up with a start, breath short and heart hammering. It took him a few moments to work out where he was. Safe in bed. The body beside him moved, rolling over and slipping an arm around his waist. He tensed for a moment before relaxing._

_"Hey." A nose nuzzled his cheek before lips briefly found his jaw. "What're you so worried about?"_

_Mycroft rolled onto his side, facing the other man in the half dark of the bedroom. They needed heavier curtains, Mycroft noted._

_"Nothing," he said. "Just a nightmare."_

_"Worrying again?" Richard asked quietly._

_Mycroft swallowed, then nodded, ignoring the way that fear seemed to lodge in his throat like a physical thing._

_Richard smiled, Mycroft could recognise the movement in the silhouette of his face. "It's going to be fine, you know."_

_"And if it isn't?" Mycroft asked. "If one day one of us doesn't come home, what then?"_

_"We're both here now," Richard reminded him. "Worry about the what-ifs when they happen, yeah?" He raised a hand, cupping Mycroft's jaw and stroking a thumb over his cheek._

_Mycroft closed his eyes, leaning into the touch slightly. "I love you."_

_"I love you too, and I'm right here. I've got you."_

_Mycroft rolled onto his other side, shifting back until his back was pressed to Richard's chest. An arm anchored itself securely around his waist. Lips pressed against the top of his head, the arm around him squeezing briefly before relaxing._

_Slowly, Mycroft drifted back off to sleep._

"Mycroft?" Greg asked, leaning forward slightly. Mycroft looked a million miles away, panic dawning slowly across his face. The sudden change in his demeanor was concerning, to say the least. "Are you okay?"

"I am quite fine." Mycroft stood up abruptly, his chair scraping back across the tiles. Greg could not miss the shake in his voice, the lack of confidence in his words. "If you'll excuse me, I believe you can see yourself out."

A moment later the younger man was gone, disappearing out of the door and walking so fast he might as well have been sprinting.

Something was wrong, very wrong, and there was no way that Greg was leaving Mycroft alone when he looked so devastated. Greg saw enough shock and terror at work to know it when he saw it. Every instinct in him screamed that he mustn't leave Mycroft in the state he was in. Greg had good instincts, and he trusted them.

He followed Mycroft through the house, the sound of footsteps and slamming doors enough to lead him.

Greg passed through the bedroom, pausing outside the bathroom with his hand raised to knock. He could leave, he knew. He could find someone on his way out, Anthea or part of Mycroft's security, who would most likely be in a much better position to deal with- whatever it was going on with Mycroft. The security would be a better option, he thought, given his discussion with Anthea. Leaving was hardly fixing things.

He didn't want to leave. Mycroft had looked terrified and all Greg wanted to do was help. It was why he had chosen the police, after all. Saviour complex, his sister called it, but it served him well enough. He knocked twice, just loud enough to be heard on the other side, and waited.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft startled slightly at the sound of two knocks against the wood of the bathroom door. He braced himself against the sink, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. It took him only a few seconds to realise why it was not working. The situation was too similar to the previous week, and he stepped away from the sink as though it burned.

He glanced around the room. The toilet lid was out, the previous week in the forefront of his mind, despite the fact that it was not the same bathroom. He did not want to sit on the edge of the bath, it looked too uncomfortable. He was considering the floor as an option when there was another gentle knock at the door.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade's voice was quiet, concerned. Mycroft frowned. Lestrade was supposed to have left, he was not supposed to be persistent. "You don't have to let me in. But I need know you're okay in there."

"I am quite fine," Mycroft said, ignoring the way that his voice broke on the final word. He leant against the wall beside the door, sinking until he was sitting on the floor. He shut his eyes, focusing on the cool tile under his hands. Though his breathing was still erratic, he felt rather more successful about getting it under control.

"Not sure I believe that," Lestrade said. The sound was closer, and Mycroft deduced automatically. Lestrade was sitting on the other side of the wall, most likely in a similar position to himself. "We still have to talk about this, you know."

Mycroft did not reply, and Lestrade seemed to take his silence as agreement. There was a light thump, the sound of Lestrade's head rocking back against the wall. "This doesn't have to go anywhere. I just- if this is ending, I'd like to know why."

"We have both become unreasonably attached," Mycroft said. It was the truth. Lestrade had come into their arrangement with the same expectations and rules as he had. The truth would surely explain his wish to leave their involvement.

"Both?" Lestrade's voice was barely audible, and Mycroft froze. Damnation. His own attachment was not supposed to be a part of the conversation. "You want to tell me why that's a bad thing?"

"Irrelevant," Mycroft replied tersely. His own attachment was certainly making him uncomfortable. Regardless, Lestrade only needed to believe that it was his feelings that were problematic, he did not need to know about Mycroft's.

Lestrade fell silent, and while Mycroft did not hear him leave he was hopeful that the other man was considering doing so.

"Is this-" Lestrade paused, and Mycroft could tell he was thinking over what he was about to say. "Is this something to do with-" Lestrade cut off again. There was another thud, Lestrade's head against the wall again, before he tried for a third time. "I found a photo, last week."

Mycroft knew immediately the photograph that Lestrade meant. It was small, unobtrusive, and sat on the mantle place above the fireplace. He kept it for many reasons. In part it was a fond memory, a captured moment of happiness. In part it remained as a reminder. A reminder of what his past mistakes had lead to, the cost of his failure.

"Look, I wasn't prying. I was just having a look around," Lestrade said. "Didn't go into any cupboards or anything. But it was on display. It's- It's a nice photo. But it made me wonder, if he's the reason you're so against this changing. Because it's relationships, isn't it, rather than just me?"

Mycroft shut his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. There were tears in his eyes and he was not sure when they had sprung up. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. It helped, somewhat.

"Irrelevant," he said again, thought he was aware that his tone was far less convincing that it had been before. "Entirely irrelevant," he tried again.

"Okay," Lestrade agreed. His tone suggested that it was not okay at all, but Mycroft was glad that it did not seem like he was going to press the point.

"I believe we would both be best served if you were to leave now," Mycroft said. He heard Lestrade shift and sigh.

"Yeah. Yeah if that's what you want." Mycroft heard him shift again, standing. His voice was further away when he spoke again. "Can I come back, next Wednesday?"

"I see little use in you doing so," Mycroft replied. There was an ache in his chest and a thick, dry feeling in the back of his throat. He ignored them resolutely. Lestrade was leaving, he could deal with any pesky emotional effects once the other man was gone.

"We still have things to talk about," Lestrade said. "But it'll give us some space. Time to clear our heads, work out what we want."

"I know exactly what I want."

"Then give me a chance to work out the same?" Lestrade asked. Even with his voice muffled by the door between them, Mycroft could hear the emotion in it. He swallowed, nodding to himself.

"Very well, next Wednesday. I shall send a car. I do not expect to hear from you before then," Mycroft said.

"Good. That's good. See you next week." Mycroft did not reply. Instead he waited, listening as Greg left the room and made his way down the stairs. He waited for the sound on the front door opening and closing, and the sound of an engine (he would have to have words with Anthea) before he unlocked the bathroom door.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, through into the lounge. The photo, propped up in its frame, was still in place.

He lifted it from its position, settling into his armchair. He was fond of the photo, always had been. It was over a decade old, he had had it reprinted more than once as it faded. He was smiling, his arm wrapped around Richard, hand splayed across his ribs. Richard's eyes were closed, his head turned as he pressed a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. Loathe though he was to admit it, Mycroft was blushing, smiling up at the camera.

Mycroft ran his fingers gently over the glass covering the photo. The panicked feeling had receded, but it was replaced by a lump in his throat and a prickling behind his eyes.

He rubbed a hand over his face, standing and placing the frame back in its position. He made his way towards the stairs, switching the lights off behind him as he went. Lestrade and the problems that he brought with him could be dealt with after a few hours of sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

"Sir, your eleven o'clock meeting is here." Anthea's voice was clear over the small speaker. Mycroft frowned, his gaze flicking briefly to the day planner on his desk. Eleven o'clock was empty, as he knew it would be.

"I do not have an eleven o'clock," he replied shortly. He did not have a meeting, but he had plenty of work to be doing. He did not need to be bothered by anyone who did not have an appointment.

"A Mister Barker, Sir. He seems sure that you will see him," Anthea said. There was no apology in her voice. Mycroft's annoyance had faded on hearing the name and he nodded to himself.

"Send him in."

Anthea did not reply, but a moment later the door opened. Mycroft stood from his chair, inclining his head slightly towards the man at the door. "Sir."

The older man waved a hand at him dismissively, smiling brightly as he closed the door behind him. "No need to stand on ceremony, lad," he said. Mycroft nodded stiffly, gesturing him towards the chair on the other side of his desk.

"May I offer you something to drink?" he asked, stepping out from behind his desk and reaching for the kettle and tea set in his office. It was set up at the side of the room, for situations such as these.

"Early Grey, you remember how I take it," the man replied. "Relax, this is a social visit, not an official one. I don't do those anymore."

Mycroft felt the muscles in his back loosen slightly and kept his attention focused on the tea tray in front of him. Once he had two cups of Earl Grey made up, one black with a half spoon of sugar for his guest and one with no additions for himself, he settled back at his desk.

"You must take some time to come and visit me. Your letters are always enjoyable, but it would do me good to see you in person." The scold was not particularly hidden, and Mycroft dropped his gaze to his tea cup. He cringed internally. He had not seen James in nearly three years, though they exchanged letters regularly. That the first words out of James' mouth were scolding reminded Mycroft of being in his twenties again. Fresh out of university, still learning his position and making mistakes.

"I have been busy-" Mycroft started. He stopped as soon as James shook his head.

"It is Scotland, Mycroft, not the moon. A weekend would be sufficient." The man's voice sharpened. "I do so struggle to find scintillating conversation, and I'd be better off playing cards against that distractible brother of yours than the folks nearby."

"My apologies, James. Next time I am able I shall come and see you for a few days," Mycroft said, looking back up. Honest mistakes were easy to deal with when it came to James, at least. Mycroft knew that he could apologise, do his best to remedy the situation, and they would be able to move on. He meant it when he said that he would visit, and James would know it.

"Good. You should have called anyway. I hear you have been distracted," James said, taking a sip of tea as he waited for Mycroft's reply.

Mycroft stilled, carefully placing his cup back into its saucer. The movement was just about enough, he hoped, to hide the very slight shake of his hand. Of course there was a reason behind the visit, and he should have expected it. "A small personal matter, I am dealing with it," Mycroft assured James. He hoped that he sounded more sure about it than he felt, under James' scrutiny.

"A small matter which caused the recent issue with the Americas?" James asked, clearly disbelieving.

"I miscalculated. It will not happen again," Mycroft said stiffly. "The personal matter is not a distraction. I have it entirely under control." Mostly, anyway. Everything was in hand.

"Hmm." James hummed, sipping his tea. "And distracted by a romantic entanglement, of all things."

"It is not a romantic entanglement," Mycroft corrected immediately, drawing himself up slightly. "And it is not a distraction." He had his life suitably compartmentalised, whether others could see that or not.

James studied him for a moment. "That is not the entire truth, Mycroft, he said. "I should have come to see you immediately after the unpleasantness with Richard and Araminta." James sighed, shaking his head briefly. "I was distracted by my own affairs, at a time when you were most in need of me."

"I do not require your assistance. I dealt with it," Mycroft replied firmly. He ignored the painful twist of emotion in his gut at the mention of the names. He had already dealt quite enough with the memory of his time with Richard. If it did not go away he could deal with it later, when he was not trying to have a conversation.

"Brilliantly, as evidenced," James said dryly. "This Lestrade, I've looked into him." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He did not need someone else's interference in the matter, it was not close to serious enough to require that. Not that that had ever been enough to stop James when he decided he needed to get involved with a matter. "Come now, lad, you're not the only one capable of doing some digging and pulling a file. He seems a good sort."

"He is a good police officer. And he has been most useful in handling Sherlock," Mycroft replied, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. Lestrade certainly had his good points, that he would not deny.

"I wasn't sure, from his file - but you could love him, I think." It was very nearly a question, in intonation if not in form.

"It is not relevant," Mycroft said, shaking his head slightly. "I shall not be pursuing such a thing. It is as good as finished with."

"I can't tell you what to do with your personal life, but I can give you advice. This man is not Richard, and I see no way in which this situation could end up similarly. Would it really be so awful to try?" James placed his empty cup on the table, leaning back in his chair.

Mycroft considered the words, weighed the idea. James was not entirely wrong, he could accept. Greg was not Richard. But Mycroft was still himself, his situation not all that different to what it had once been.

Not that it was relevant, he reminded himself sharply. Regardless of what James had to say, regardless of his thoughts on the matter, there was nothing to pursue with Lestrade.

"The situation is in hand," he said finally. It was rare that he closed a discussion so clearly with his mentor. But he had had enough of the train of conversation. He was dealing with the situation, there was a plan in place, there was nothing more to be said.

"Call me if you do decide you want to talk about it," James said. He stood, reaching out to shake Mycroft's hand. "You work out what it is that you really want, rather than just listening to your gut. It's good, but it's not perfect. You've made mistakes on your gut before, don't forget it. Those you upset in the Americas certainly won't."

Mycroft shook his hand, watching as he left the room. The door closed behind the older man and Mycroft stared at the wood, churning over the conversation in his mind, until Anthea called through to remind him of his next meeting. He slipped his best bland smile onto his face and stood to greet the woman who stepped into his office only a moment later.


	15. Chapter 15

The landline was ringing as Greg unlocked his front door. He reached for the handset as he pushed the door closed behind him, wedging it between his ear and his shoulder.

"Lestrade," he greeted shortly. It was probably work, and if they were going to try to call him back in he was going to tell them to bugger off. It was Wednesday, he had somewhere to be, and he had just finished an eleven hour day just five hours of sleep after a fourteen hour one.

"Uncle Greg?" Jake sounded unsure, and Greg immediately relaxed, making an effort to soften his tone.

"Hey kiddo," he said, struggling out of his coat as he kept the phone pressed to his ear, switching hands to keep it in place. "Everything okay?"

"Mhm. Mum said I should phone you," Jake said.

Greg smiled, heading through to his room and opening his wardrobe. He was late back from work, the traffic had been worse than usual. He just about had time to change before he expected the car to arrive. "And why's that?"

"I told her I wanted a rat for my birthday, and she said you know all about them."

Greg pulled a pair of jeans out of the wardrobe, tossing them back onto the bed. "I've not had any in a while, but I'm sure I can help out." He pulled a shirt off of its hanger, leaving it on top of the jeans. He hadn't had rats in a few years, not since deciding that he really was not home consistently enough to give them the time he would like. In a flat in London without a garden, however, they had always seemed the perfect alternative to the dogs that he had had growing up. "What do you want to know?"

"Mum says they're smelly. Is that true?" Jake asked.

"They can be," Greg said, digging through a draw and pulling out a pair of socks and pants. Too much time at work always left him feeling slightly grimy. Without time for a shower, a full change of clothes was going to have to be enough. "You've got to make sure you clean their cage really well."

"Oh, okay." There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Are they smart?"

"They're pretty smart, yeah," Greg agreed. The rumble of a car engine drew close, then cut off, and Greg glanced out of his bedroom window. A familiar black car sat by the curb, and he raised a hand towards the driver to let them know that he would be down shortly. "I've got to run, kiddo, sorry. Get your Mum to send me an email with everything you need to know, okay?" Greg asked.

"Okay Uncle Greg. Thank you."

"Any time, Jake. I'll talk to you again soon, yeah?" Greg asked, starting to undo on the buttons of his shirt with his free hand.

"Okay. Bye!" The line went dead before Greg had a chance to reply, and he shook his head fondly as he put the handset aside. He stripped and changed quickly before making his way to the front door. He placed the phone back in its cradle, pausing only to grab his keys and mobile on his way out the door.

The silent journey to Mycroft's felt longer than normal.

Wednesday was not nearly as busy as Mycroft would have liked. He worked from home and the hours before Lestrade's arrival passed far too slowly. It gave him more time to think, to worry at the edges of his plan and plot the potential outcomes of the meeting.

There were several paths that the conversation could take. They were dependent on Lestrade's mood, mostly. But Mycroft had every single one mapped out, and knew how he would deal with them. They all ended in the same place, however. Lestrade would see his logic and leave, and that would be the end of their entanglement. He may have to get past some original resistance, Lestrade was attached after all, but the older man would see sense. Sentiment was going to make the situation more difficult, but it was not an insurmountable obstacle.

Mycroft set the kettle to boil as he heard the car come to a stop outside. Lestrade would let himself into the house, as was their norm, he was sure. Mycroft stepped out into the hallway to greet him. He watched as the older man toed off his shoes and hung up his coat.

"May I offer you a drink?" He did not expect Lestrade's stay to be a long one, but the least that he could do was be a gracious host.

"Coffee, please," Lestrade replied. Mycroft inclined his head, pulling down a three cup cafetiere along with his tea strainer. Lestrade was tired, then. His posture and general demeanor told Mycroft much the same story. At least two back to back long days, possibly three. Mycroft carefully edited the potential discussion paths as he made the drinks in silence.

Mycroft placed the drinks on the table once they were done, taking the seat across from the one which Lestrade had settled in.

"You have had significant time to work out what is is that you want," Mycroft started after a few long minutes of silence as they sipped at their drinks. It was a statement, rather than a question, but he paused for Lestrade's nod regardless. "And your conclusion must be that, as you can not have attachment and will not return to our prior arrangement, there is nothing left for you here." It was simple logic, and Lestrade was not a stupid man. He would understand, Mycroft knew, and agree with the conclusion.

Instead, Lestrade shook his head. "Wrong."

Mycroft blinked, then blinked again, before considering Lestrade closely. "Not so. There is no option for an attachment at this junction, and you will not be able to return to our prior engagement." The response had been on his list as unlikely, though it was not unexpected. There was not a flaw in his argument, so Lestrade's reply was illogical. Sentiment, he expected, rather than sense, had fueled Lestrade's answer.

"You believe that there is another option," Mycroft said.

"I know that there is," Lestrade agreed. He took a sip of coffee and pulled a face, wrinkling up his nose. Mycroft firmly pushed away the thought that the look was - quite frankly - adorable. That sort of train of thought was not helpful, or relevant to the situation in the slightest. He forced himself to focus, realising that the drink would be cold and momentarily considered offering a hot refill.

"Look." The sound of Lestrade's voice drew Mycroft's attention back to the other man. "I don't know what happened with you in the past. You don't want to talk about it, now or ever, that's your prerogative." Lestrade shrugged, his hands palm up, placating. Mycroft could feel himself tensing, his breathing shortening slightly. He did not want to talk about Richard, Lestrade did not need to know anything more than he did already. "But from what I can figure, it isn't something individual to me that you're concerned about."

"I am not concerned, Gregory. There is simply no logical continuation to our involvement beyond our joint interest in keeping Sherlock safe." If only he could convince Lestrade to see the logical progression, the older man would leave. He trusted James, respected his opinion, but in this he was wrong. He was better off without the complication of any sort of relationship.

"Relationships aren't logical, Mycroft," Greg said. His voice had gone soft. Mycroft swallowed thickly, leaning back slightly in his chair. He did not need Lestrade's sentiment, his gentleness. Shouting, frustration, would have been easier to deal with.

"There is no relationship, Detective Inspector," he started. Lestrade shook his head.

"Don't give me that," Lestrade said. "One date, somewhere other than here. Something to give us some space from-" he gestured vaguely, encompassing their ongoing situation with the movement. "You still think this is a bad idea after that, we can go back to a call every other month to talk about Sherlock and nothing else."

Mycroft caught his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it slightly. It was an old habit, one that he had almost entirely under control most of the time. It never bothered him at work, but the slight tell had come out more than once in personal situations, when they arose.

Lestrade was still wrong, there was no path forwards for their involvement, date or no. But if a single date would be enough to convince him that there was no future for them, perhaps it would be worth it. It was not a path that he had expected, nor particularly planned for, but it was an option. A couple of hours of his time and he could end the whole messy business without trouble. He and Lestrade could part on amicable terms, if not friendly ones.

"Very well," Mycroft said eventually. "Next Wednesday would suit my purposes."

"Not Wednesday," Lestrade said immediately. "Any day we both have time, but not Wednesday."

Mycroft nodded. If Lestrade felt they needed the space from their usual meeting time, he could have it. It would certainly make no difference to the outcome of their single date. "I shall check my schedule for a suitable time in the next week."

Lestrade smiled, hesitant but honest, leaning forward to brush the back of Mycroft's hand with his fingers. "Good. And if you ever want to talk, well, you know where to find me."

Mycroft nodded once. He would not contact Lestrade, there was nothing for them to talk about, but it did no harm to let the older man think otherwise. "It is late, Gregory, and I believe you have had at least two long days. The car is waiting to take you home."

Lestrade nodded, the hesitant smile still on his face as he stood. He paused, seemingly torn, but thankfully did not try to initiate any sort of farewell contact. Instead he nodded briefly before turning for the door.

Mycroft allowed himself to relax slightly when he heard the front door close behind Lestrade. He steepled his hands in front of him, head dropping to hang down. He allowed his shoulders to slump, his usually carefully constructed posture falling away. A week, two at most, and his involvement with Lestrade would be entirely at an end.

He should have been relieved. He couldn't quite work out why the thought made him feel sick to his stomach.


End file.
